Fate is in the Offing
by Gayani
Summary: This was their destiny, to be united as one. Debster centric. Set after season 1. Rated M for future lovin'
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first attempt at a multi chapter AU Debster verse. I have some general ideas of where this will go and it's about halfway written so far, but there are still some very big holes in this! Anyways, I would love to hear your thoughts and could definitely use some guidance!

* * *

He's kissing that spot she likes so much, right there on her neck. She can feel her knees going weak and wraps her arms around him, whispers in his ear "Just fuck me already."

He laughs at that, lets his fingertips slip under her shirt. "Always so eager." He smiles at her, kisses her gently a few times before Deb can take no more, wraps her arms around his neck and holds on while she devours him.

"Okay, okay." He laughs when he finally manages to pull away. "You need to get rid of these first." With a flick of his finger he pushes her onto the waiting bed, bends down and pulls her shoes and socks off.

She waits, mostly patiently, as he leans over her and undoes the buttons of her shirt and pants, one by one. Deb jiggles her legs, looks at him pleadingly, but she knows the rules. She plays the game his way or not at all. She's surprised, by how much he likes to control things in the bedroom. But she admits begrudgingly to him that she enjoys it.

He finally has her naked, has even gotten down to his boxers. Now he kneels between her legs, trails his fingers along the contours of her body. She sighs delightedly, as he draws a line with his index finger along her arm. Then glides the side of his hand against her leg.

"Rudy…" She finally whines impatiently.

"Shhh…." His face is a study in concentration. "I'm figuring something out."

Deb giggles. "What?"

"Where to make the first cut."

Deb looks up at him confused, but he chooses that moment to pull off his boxers, and without much preamble he pushes into her.

"Ugh." Deb grunts in discomfort, taken aback at the suddenness. But he quickly makes it better, reaches between their bodies and coaxes her arousal. He looks down at her, grins. It fills her with happiness, but then there is a flash of wickedness, and her gut churns in response. In a moment it is gone, and he is muttering how much he loves her.

Deb sighs in relief, kisses him tenderly as he makes love to her. His lips and fingers glide over her body, settling in surprising locations before flitting off again. She can feel her heart swell with joy as he tends to her.

She climaxes, digging her fingers into him and calling his name. She's just coming off of the high, his body still thrusting into hers when she sees the flash. Her eyes catch the blade, glinting menacingly at her. It comes down with a zinging sound, slices into her flesh. The pain is agonizing, but the sight of her severed hand is worse. She screams.

* * *

Deb wakes panting, heart racing, beads of sweat sliding down her forehead. She thrashes for a moment as she gets her bearings in Dexter's dark living room. Shoving away the bedding violently, she sits up on the couch, swipes her hand against her forehead.

She's dry heaving, sobbing and she closes a hand over her mouth, afraid to wake Dexter in the next room. It's a good five minutes before the dream recedes far enough to the edges of her mind that she is sure it was never real. But the sound of the knife, the pain, the sight of her own blood, haunt her.

She calms herself, takes deep even breaths, but its small comfort against the idea of 2 am darkness and the shadows clinging to the walls. Shakily she moves to the bathroom, rinses her face in the dark. Her fear makes her want to flood the room with light, but she doesn't want to see her expression, the sadness and terror that cling to her.

It's been three weeks since the truth came to light. Three weeks of not sleeping. Three weeks of horrific nightmares. Three weeks of doing nothing but fucking thinking of _him_.

She keeps trying to convince everyone that she's fine, thank you very much. But she knows much better. She knows she will never be fucking fine again. She knows she will never be able to look at anything the same way. But she's afraid that if she admits that out loud to anyone, that it will set in stone. It will cement her as forever changed.

It doesn't help that she isn't allowed to work. Although she does understand it. She is quite sure if she were to walk into a crime scene right now that she would have a panic attack.

Deb stands in Dexter's living room and considers her options. She hates being outside by herself after dark, even though right now a run or a swim are probably the only things that would make her feel better. She can't sleep once she awakens from these nightmares, and returning to the couch seems like a terrible idea. She doesn't want the noise of the tv.

She glances towards Dexter's room, the door open for her benefit. She moves quietly towards it, peeks her head inside. Dexter lies still as usual; as a kid she would often think he was dead because he slept so soundly.

She moves closer, sees that he's ensconced on one side of the bed. She wants to be near him, to feel his calming presence. Since everything happened, he is her only comfort. He is the only one whose very company soothes her. She pulls back the covers gently, slides beneath the sheets.

She lies still for a moment, listens to his even breathing. But tonight it's not enough. She feels the need to touch him, and scoots closer. She hopes he won't notice as she lightly places her hand over his heart. It beats steadily and soothingly. His breathing hasn't changed, so Deb moves closer still. She slides right up next to him, gently places her head on his chest. She listens to the soft thumping and finally feels her body relax.

The tension oozes out of her as Dexter's chest rises and falls steadily.

"Deb?" His voice is quiet enough that she doesn't startle. He wraps a protective arm around her.

"I had a bad dream." Even to her own ears her voice sounds childlike. She's grateful that she has Dexter to lean on; she couldn't be like this with anyone else. Especially not after what has happened.

"Ok. Can you sleep?" His voice is husky.

"Yes." She is surprised to realize.

He doesn't say anything else and she drifts off quickly. He's glad she has finally chosen to do this. After three weeks of waking every night with her, he is feeling worn down. He'll hear her shouts around 2. And then he'll listen as she paces, moves around the small apartment and tries so hard not to disturb him.

Several times he has considered going to her, but he knows Deb well. She needed to come to him in her own time and in her own way. So he waited, until she was finally ready to take comfort in him. He had actually been surprised it had taken her so long. That she hadn't fallen asleep next to his bed like she used to when they were kids.

The nights she took the bed she seemed to sleep a bit longer, the nightmares a bit less severe. But even then, she would wake shouting.

Even though it pained him to have to kill Brian, he knows he has made the right choice. Every day since it happened, every moment they are together, he is grateful she is still alive.

He places his hand over hers on his chest, and wonders at the peace she gives him. When he's apart from her during the day, Brian haunts him constantly. His brother taunts him mercilessly, asking about Deb, questioning why Dexter chose her. But in her presence the voice quiets and any doubts that were raised are quickly squashed.

He can feel her heart beating against him, matches his breaths to hers, and falls back to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Dexter is surprised to find his sister wide awake, banging dishes around, bright and early the next morning. She's never been a morning person and to see her bright eyed at all in these past few weeks is a welcome change.

He surveys the mess in his kitchen as she smiles at him. "I'm making pancakes."

He shakes his head, laughs. "No, you're not. Your pancakes are burnt blobs that I would rather not attempt to eat."

"Hey!" She throws a towel at him, but then sighs, puts down the mixing bowl and raises her hands. "You're right, this is your forte. So I guess you're making me pancakes." She grins at him mischievously.

"I walked right into that."

"Sucker." Deb teases.

He gives her a good look, can see that she's still struggling, but she wants so badly to be better. "You went for a run?"

She nods as she drinks her coffee. "I slept really well…" Deb adds quietly "after…"

Dexter agrees, tries not to make a big deal out of it, but realizes they both needed it.

After breakfast she cleans up the kitchen and he gets ready for work. He pauses on his way out, gives her a quick hug, but she holds onto him a bit longer, grateful for his affection. She pulls back finally, smiles awkwardly at him. "I won't be needy forever. I promise."

Dexter just grins in return, thinks it's better not to admit that he likes it.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: First, thanks for the reviews! I will definitely keep working on this and make sure it gets done-just might need a little patience from you all

Although I don't feel like we saw it very often, Dexter definitely had a possessive streak when it came to Deb. This fic is starting to head in that direction. So hopefully I'll manage to balance PossessiveDexter! with staying true to character…

* * *

Dexter pauses in the doorway to his bedroom. Deb had taken the bed tonight and now he watches as she mumbles and thrashes, a bad nightmare taking hold as usual. He had awoken to her yelling, had actually been a bit surprised to find that she hadn't managed to wake herself up as well.

He runs his hand through his hair as he comes to the bedside. Sitting down on the bed, he reaches his hand out, places it calmingly on her shoulder. It is enough to startle her awake. One hand latches onto his arm, the other claws onto his chest as her eyes snap open and she struggles to sit up.

"Deb, it's me. It's just me." Dex grimaces as her nails dig into his flesh. But she is still trapped in her nightmare, muttering curses, saying _his_ name.

Dexter grabs onto her wrist, twists it away from his chest, then yanks her closer to look her in the eye. "Deb."

She blinks at him, finally sighing in relief, the fight going out of her body. He pulls her into an embrace, wrapping his arms around her. He brings one hand up, cradles her neck, presses his cheek against hers. She smells of sleep, warm and comforting.

They breathe as one, chests rising and falling together. Finally Deb pulls back, "It was just a bad dream." Her hands leave his body, brush her hair away from her face.

Still Dexter holds onto her, one arm holding her upright. "What were you dreaming about?" He tilts his head at her inquisitively. There have been so many times in their lives together when Dexter wishes he could peer inside his sister's mind. He wishes he could understand how she thinks, how she feels. There is a constant urge to know everything about her. He thinks this is compensation for the fact that she knows nothing about him.

She sighs heavily at his question. "I don't want to talk about it." Deb tries to turn away, curl back into bed. But Dexter keeps hold of her. He holds her still, presses his forehead against hers. The intimacy is strange, yet familiar and comforting. Still, Deb doesn't like when Dexter gets like this. He has this way of making her do and say things she doesn't want to. He gets this look in his eye, a tone in his voice and she knows he expects something of her. There have been moments when it almost went too far.

It's strange with Dexter, how he can be so normal sometimes; so ordinary and boring, predictable. Then suddenly the brother that she knows, the affable, harmless lab geek slips away. What's left is something that excites her nearly as much as it frightens her. It doesn't happen often, but in moments like this, when she can feel him change, she's not sure what to do. Running away seems safer; pulling out of his grip, shoving him off the bed, this seems like the smart choice. But there is something enticing in this change, something that sets her heart beating a bit faster. There is something which she can't ignore when he looks at her like this.

"You were dreaming of Rudy." Dexter states. "Was it when he took you?" Dexter frowns at her. He doesn't like what his brother has done. He doesn't like that she was hurt, physically or otherwise. He hates to think what it was like for her as Brian dragged her around bound and gagged. Dexter hates the torture he is sure Brian inflicted on his sister.

But dreams like that Deb could handle. As horrific as it was to be helpless, trussed up and toyed with, it was what happened before that made it all the worse. She shakes her head at Dexter. "It wasn't that." She mutters. She doesn't want to tell him but has a feeling she will. She turns her head away from his.

Dexter pulls back slightly, cups her cheek in his hand and forces her gaze back to him. "Then what?" he demands an answer.

Deb sighs again, feels the shame wash over her. "It was before."

Dexter doesn't follow. "Before what?"

Deb's eyes well. "When we were together." Her voice is hushed. Though it was so difficult to say, she can feel the weight slowly lifting, she presses on. "It was how he touched me, how he told me he loved me, before I found out what he really was. It was-It was the way he made me feel. And then he became this monster." She's crying now, tears streaming down her face. But she hasn't fallen apart.

Dexter kisses her tears, tastes the saltiness on his lips. He presses another kiss to her temple, wraps his arms around her once more. His lips hover near her ear and he asks the question out loud before he's realized he even thought it. "How did he touch you?"

Deb isn't sure she's heard him right at all. Her body involuntarily jerks in response, like a shock to her system. But with Dexter holding her tightly, there is nowhere to go. There is no running. She doesn't need to respond, because Dexter continues.

"Did he touch you here?" Dexter's hand is gliding up her bare back, under her tshirt. Deb gasps in response. His other hand skims along her ribs, around to her stomach where it pauses its movement. "Here?"

Dexter pulls back slightly, grabs the end of her shirt and pulls it gently off of her. Deb is surprised to find she doesn't recoil; she doesn't attempt to cover her bare chest in front of him. Dexter's eyes scan her; her taut stomach, the curves of her small breasts, up her long neck to her face. She's no longer crying, but he can't identify the look on her face.

For a moment they stare at each other. Dexter's hands come back to her body. One holds onto her waist, while the other cups her breast, feels the hard nipple pressing against his palm. His eyes fall to her lips. He can't help but think how Brian kissed her there. How he kissed her everywhere. He wants to take her back from his brother. Debra belongs to him.

Maybe if his brother would have shared, it could have been ok. But he wanted to have Deb, take her away from Dex. This was unacceptable.

He finds himself leaning forward. "Here." He kisses her, feels her lips trembling beneath his own. Their eyes are open as he kisses her and he can see the confusion on her face. But she doesn't fight him, she doesn't pull away. She doesn't say a word when his lips move to her chin, then down to her collarbone, over to her breast.

He lays her down and his lips continue to move across her bare flesh. He takes her back inch by inch. Tastes her skin, runs his fingers against her softness.

Deb watches him when she can, but lies otherwise still as he caresses her body. He pauses, looks down at her, considers for the first time if he should be doing this. But Deb hasn't said no, and he needs her. He needs to hold her against him, he needs to reclaim her.

He leans down, kisses her again and this time feels her kiss him back. Her lips part and he slips his tongue into her warm mouth. Dexter presses his palm above her left breast, feels her heart beating vibrantly against it and groans.

He pulls back again, strips off his tshirt and boxers, reaches down to her to peel back the covers and remove her shorts. She watches as he does all this. Deb thinks she should stop him, feels this is wrong, so fucking inappropriate that it can't be justified, no matter what shit she's been through lately. She watches him and wonders why he's doing this. What spurred this desire within him, to touch her this way, to kiss her? She had sensed this from him before, but he had never acted upon it. Never consummated whatever craving she had seen in his eyes before.

And what exactly was she thinking? That this would fix things somehow? That he could erase all remnants of Rudy from her body and soul if she just allowed Dexter to fuck her? But she couldn't imagine anyone better to fix this. She thought that maybe the one person in her life that she could always count on could be trusted with this task too.

When he joins her in the bed, she is surprised to recognize her own lust for him. This is Dexter, and she shouldn't want him in this way. He was her fucking brother. But as his hands skim up her thighs she can think of nothing more than his touch. She longs to feel his lips again; she wants him inside of her with growing anticipation.

He looks down at her, marvels at the sight of Deb nude, illuminated only by the filtered moonlight as it comes through the bedroom blinds. He drags a hand down her flat stomach, all the way between her thighs and is mildly surprised to find her wet. He watches as he slides a finger inside of her, notices the way her hips tilt up to him. He has an image of Brian kissing her just there and leans down, tries to replace the image with one of his own.

His stubble scratches against her sensitive inner thighs as she feels his lips brush against her clit. She gasps, bucks her hips up, her hands tangling into his hair and pulling him closer. He obliges, allowing his tongue to explore her folds, tasting the result of her arousal, sweet and tangy.

He pushes her closer, then reels her back, listens to her moans and cries until she can take no more. He leaves her dangling, kisses his way up her body as she digs her fingers into his arms and back, encourages him on.

Finally he nestles between her legs, the tip of his cock pressing slightly at her entrance, hovering as he waits for her to open her eyes. He kisses her chin, "Deb, look at me."

She barely recognizes his growling voice, but opens her eyes and whispers "Dex."

He scoops one hand under her head, locks his eyes with hers, wants her to know it is him inside of her. Deb's eyes widen imperceptibly. Dexter notices the change from the moment before, almost stops, fears he had pushed her too far. But he is so close to what he wants. He slides into her, inch by inch, listens to Deb's strained moan.

He doesn't stop until she has taken all of him, then stills, feels her body contract around his. Her eyes are still wide, her lips parted, her breath coming in short puffs. He tilts her head up, brings her lips to his. She doesn't react much as he plunders her mouth. She is compliant, malleable as he starts to move, stroking in and out of her.

He finally releases her lips, watches her open her eyes, watches a tear trail down her cheek, off the side of her face. His tongue follows its path, before he returns to her lips, traces his tongue along the edge.

Deb holds onto him, clutches at his shoulders, her legs clinging to his hips, as if she is lost at sea and he is the only buoyant fragment she could ride to shore. The tears continue to fall, but she barely notices as she stares into his eyes, her vision blurring and clearing, blurring and clearing.

Dex reaches behind him, picks one ankle off of his hips, pushes it up onto his shoulder so he can bury himself deeper within her. Deb groans, as he picks up speed, but her eyes never leave his. He takes her hands from his shoulders, pulls them above her head, holds them down with one hand, seeks to control her completely. His free hand moves to her breast, tugs at her nipple, sending her careening over the edge.

With a half scream and shudder, she contracts around him, squeezes him tight. And he finally lets go, spills deep within her. Never before had he felt so connected to anyone. And for this sensation to happen with Deb, somehow makes it more complete.

Deb's eyes have finally closed, her heavy breathing is slowing. He gently pulls away from her, rolls off to her side and pulls the sheets over both of them. She turns away from him almost immediately, and for the first time since he walked into the room, Dexter worries what would happen after this.

He turns towards her, but stops short of touching her. He listens to her breathing even out, watches the movements of her body slow. He drifts to sleep staring at the back of her head considering where they would go from here.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Once again thanks for reading! would love to hear your thoughts always :)

* * *

Early morning sunlight streams in through the partially open blinds. Deb blinks once, twice, brings her hand up to her face to block the bright light. It returns in a flash, the events that unfolded the previous night. Deb's heart hammers and she slowly glances behind her to find Dexter fast asleep. She needs to get away, quickly. She slips out of bed stealthily, tip toes into the living room where she tugs on whatever clothing she can find. She is gone in 2 minutes, breathing easily only once she has started her car and driven off.

It is an hour later before Dexter awakes to an empty bed. His eyes trace over the dent left in the pillow next to him. He rubs his face, gets out of bed and checks the apartment. She is gone and he worries what it means.

He calls her cell, but gives up around 10am when his fifth call goes unanswered. He manages to get through the day as he thinks about her. Remembers the way she tasted, the sound of her moans as he she had tightened around him. When she hasn't returned any of his calls by 3pm he knows she is upset with him. But he has no idea how to fix it. He doesn't regret what happened for a moment. In fact, he wants more.

He returns home that evening early, toting grocery bags full of steak and beers. But the apartment is empty, and oddly clean. He drops the bags on the counter, spots the note tacked to the fridge.

_I found a new place. It's probably better we don't talk for awhile.-Deb_

Dexter stares at the note in disbelief. He rereads it twice. Is Deb really leaving him?

* * *

Dexter clenches his jaw tightly, pounds one fist hard against his desk. He is grateful for Masuka's absence today so that he can unleash some of his rage in his cramped office.

It has been 19 days since he has last seen Deb. It doesn't matter how often he calls, how many messages he leaves, she never answers him. She still isn't working, and he had overheard from Angel that she had requested an extra two weeks. Dexter doesn't know what to do, how to reach her. He has no idea where she was living. He has even broken into her bank account, but she hasn't yet updated her address.

Her absence is starting to get to him. It started off small, his anxiousness that she hadn't replied to him. Snapping a bit at Masuka when he said something asinine. But it is escalating fast. The last time he felt this way he hadn't had anyone on his table for 3 months. But he just had a kill 2 nights ago and it did nothing to quench his rage. The only thing it allowed him was a brief respite, a small satisfaction which dissipated within hours.

He thinks yet again of the last time he had seen her. How she felt beneath him, the look on her face as she came. He hadn't forced her, he is sure. But still she stays away, so what went wrong? His desperation for her is becoming alarming. And he knows if he doesn't do something about it soon he will be in serious trouble.

He just needs to find her, see her. If he can see her he can fix it. She must be missing him by now. They had never been apart for too long. Even when he went off to college she would call him constantly, complain about Harry or the boys at school or just to tell him he was an idiot for not coming home to visit. He had never gone so long without talking to Deb.

Just five minutes of her time, just the sight of him even, might be enough to bring her back. She would forgive him for their tryst, she would forget all about it. Then they could go back to steak and beers. Maybe she would even want more from him. But if she couldn't give him that, then what they had before would be enough.

Dexter exhales forcefully, runs his fingers through his hair, then leans forward and opens his blinds. He stares out over his coworkers, wondering where he might glean some information on Deb's whereabouts. Just then a movement at the edge of the bullpen catches his eye. Deb stands nervously talking to a very happy Angel.

Dexter bolts out of his chair, swings his door open with such force that the paperwork on his desk flutters into the air. In a breath he stands between Deb and Angel. Deb looks at him with alarm.

"Ay, socio! I was so excited to see your sister back here early, but she said she just had some paperwork to sign."

Deb's eyes bolt away from Dexter's to focus back on Angel. With a weak smile she steps away from Dex. "Where's LaGuerta? I need to get out of here."

"I saw her in back." Dex jumps in.

"Aww… why are you in such a hurry? C'mon you should stay and hang out. We've missed you around here."

Deb just shakes her head, attempts another half ass smile. "I'll be back before you know it." She turns away, heads towards the interrogation rooms.

Dexter follows a half step behind. Deb throws him a warning look, but he catches the color in her cheeks, knows he is having some effect on her.

As they pass the first interrogation room, Dexter grabs onto her wrist with bruising force. He swings open the door and yanks her inside after him. Deb twists her wrist away as if he had burned her. He stands between her and the door and she shrinks into the farthest corner of the room away from him.

"What the fuck?!" She accuses.

"I haven't seen you in nearly three weeks!" Dexter grinds out.

Deb glances around, checks that the camera is off, the speaker turned down.

"I told you we shouldn't talk for awhile." She hisses.

Dexter shakes his head. "I don't understand."

Deb looks incredulous "We fucked! We're supposed to be brother and sister and we fucked!" Her voice is practically screeching.

"You left me." Dexter's voice is quiet, sad. Deb frowns at him, surprised to see him so disturbed by her absence.

"I can't be near you right now." Deb ducks her head, moves to go around him. He grabs her roughly, forces his lips onto hers, ignores her as she thrashes against him. He presses her against the wall, drags his lips across her warm skin. He's so caught up in her he doesn't hear her at first. Her voice is timid, small "No…stop…"

Dexter pauses, looks up to find her eyes squeezed shut, tears falling rapidly. "No…" Deb whispers again.

Dexter jumps back as if he were kicked. He sees the pain on her face, knows he is the cause of it. "Deb." He stutters. She slumps down before him, brings her knees to her chest, lays her head down on top of them.

He crouches down in front of her, reaches out tentatively and pulls his hand back sharply when he realizes he will only make it worse. "Deb?" he tries again.

Her head snaps up suddenly. "Stay the fuck away from me." Deb growls. Like a bolt of lightning, she is on her feet and out the door. Dexter stays there and wonders if he's ruined the one good thing in his life.

* * *

Maybe he couldn't be near Deb right now. Maybe things wouldn't be so quickly fixable. But there is still one thing Dexter knows he can do and do well.

He keeps his head down as he nurses his beer. Every now and then he glances up, checks the mirror behind the bar to see that his target is still in view.

Johnny Williams, not so upstanding citizen, and patron of the country dive bar Dexter now sits at. This wasn't a place Dexter would normally consider coming to, but there were many things he did in the name of a good kill. An old Kenny Rogers song comes on, blaring loudly enough to just be heard over the raucous chorus of drunks that surrounds him. He wonders vaguely how much longer he'll have to wait this one out. He is itching to dispatch this particular fiend to the bottom of the ocean.

See Johnny is particularly nasty by Dexter's view. When he wasn't too busy drinking away his liver at this shithole, he was peddling drugs to whatever underage kid he could find. He'd start them out slow, a little weed, maybe a few pills. And then he'd drag them under, offering up coke, meth, whatever he could get his hands on to entice them. And when they were strung out and needy and had no cash, he would take other services in return for his offerings. Eventually, that wasn't enough, and he would get angry, beat them to death; leave their corpses rotting in the Miami heat.

Miami Metro had tried hard to put him away. But the slightest technicality was enough to unravel a case. So now Dexter is going to take care of things before he can strike again. And maybe doing so would clear some of the chaos in Dex's mind. Being apart from Deb is driving him nuts. He needs to gain some control, however fleeting, and he knows no better way.

Another 20 minutes ticks by before Johnny makes his way to the bathroom. It isn't ideal-Dexter had hoped to grab him on his way out for the night. But impatience has gotten the better of him and he is keen to get out of the bar before the rowdiness reaches fever pitch.

Johnny is drunk enough to not really notice the stranger that follows him into the empty restroom. It is easy to slip the needle into his neck. Johnny slumps into Dexter's waiting arms. They stumble out of the bathroom, through the back exit and Dexter quickly finds Johnny's car. He is a big guy and it takes Dex a minute to push and shove and force his limp body into the truck. But no one is really going to pay much mind to a guy trying to get his drunk friend home.

Finally, with his prey loaded up, Dexter gets behind the wheel turns the engine over and guides the truck out of the parking lot.

A few yards from the bar's door, a pair of eyes watches Dexter's movements carefully, hidden by a burnt out lightbulb. Their owner doesn't move until the truck has left the parking lot, finally heading towards their own car and following behind at a safe distance.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks for the great reviews! Always wonderful to hear from all of you :) I think we're about half way through this one, but still working so not quite sure.

Also, I'm working on something else and I'm torn between publishing it all at once versus breaking it up into small-medium sized chapters. Any preferences?

On to the story! Let's see who's following Dearly Demented Dexter...

* * *

Dexter glances around his cleaned up kill room one last time. Everything else had been loaded; the final bags sitting in the center of the room were the last for him to take to his car. Then he could send this ugly specimen to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Dexter sighs, stretches, rolls his neck back. The slight relief he had felt as he watched his victim take his last breath and dismembered him is already leaving him. The tension is already crawling back into his fingers, creeping through his veins, across his muscles.

Frustrated he turns out his lamp, picks it up along with his black trash bags and makes his way out of the abandoned building. His car is tucked into a corner behind the building. The night is exceedingly dark, no moonlight for him to navigate with. But he knows the number of steps to his car, and makes his way without hesitation.

He is about two feet from his car when he realizes he isn't alone. His breath catches in his throat and he drops the bags, his eyes struggling to focus on the vague outline leaning against his car. His muscles tense, prepare for a fight.

The flashlight cuts a beam of light through the inky blackness, hitting him in the face. He lifts one hand, attempts to shield his eyes from the brightness. Dexter waits as the flashlight lowers slowly to the trash bags at his feet.

"Who's in the trash bag Dexter?"

_Deb_.

Dexter's heart palpitates. He struggles to catch his breath. How much does she know?

"Deb?"

The beam of light swings back up, once again blocking his vision. He hears the cock of her gun, knows where it must be pointed. "Start talking." Her voice has a hardened edge he can't recognize.

Dexter is at a loss for words. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't fucking bullshit me Dex!" Deb's voice rises in anger. "Don't you fucking dare."

Dexter pauses as the flashlight switches off. He blinks a few times, stares back towards the car. He sees a flicker of flame, watches the glow as it lights the end of a cigarette. For a split second he can see her eyes, glinting ragingly green at him.

Deb takes a long drag of her cigarette, blows the smoke out slowly. "Fine, I don't mind guessing. You went to that dive bar, picked up some asshole, somehow got him into his truck. Then you brought him here and chopped him up." Deb pauses, takes another drag. "Am I close?"

"Johnny Williams. His name is Johnny Williams." He knew Deb would remember the name. The perp had walked during the ITK investigation and Deb had been particularly frustrated to lose someone she knew was guilty.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He can hear her voice tremble beneath the cold tone.

"You followed me from the bar?" Dexter attempts to take control of the situation.

Deb's voice is suddenly so close. "NO! You don't get to fucking change the topic." He gets a glimpse of her outline as she rushes him and shoves him hard. He stumbles back, trips over his feet, lands on his back. Deb is already over him, her boot pushing him into the ground. He can knock her off balance easily, but remains still.

"Let me explain." Dex soothes.

Deb hesitates, but backs away, goes back to lean against the car. "Before you try, you should know I've been following you for weeks. This is the third time I've watched you kidnap and murder someone."

Dexter silently gets back up, takes a step towards Deb. He needs to see her; he needs to know what is going through her mind. He reaches out tentatively towards her but she slaps his hand away. "Don't you fucking touch me." Deb grinds out.

His hand drops uselessly to his side. Deb can sense his hesitation. "Let me make this easier for you." Her tone is cruel. "I found your blood slides. Or maybe I should call them your trophies? I found your knives. I know what you are."

"What am I?" Dexter fears the worst has come true.

"You're a fucking serial killer." Deb's accusation lingers, something tangible that threatens to consume them both.

"I am." Dexter confesses. He hears Deb stumble under the weight of his admission. She manages to steady herself, hold her ground. She takes another long drag from her cigarette.

"Now you go to your boat." Deb sounds surprisingly strong.

"Yes." Dexter acknowledges.

"I'll follow you." He can hear the grinding of gravel as Deb moves away from him in the darkness. He is frozen there, listening to her retreat. The sound stops suddenly, from the dark surrounding him Deb's voice reaches him "Now, Dexter." He springs into action, finds the discarded items, throws them in the trunk as he hears Deb's engine turn over, sees her headlights.

His mind is blank as he drives to the marina. She parks next to him, watches him load the bags onto his boat. She ignores his proffered hand, steps onto the boat and sits silently as he takes them out into the night.

She watches closely as he dumps the bags overboard. His work done, he sits down to face her. He waits for her to say anything, even if it's to scream at him.

Deb stares down at her feet, closes her eyes. "When we….were in bed together. That's when I knew." Her gaze lifts to him slowly. He looks perplexed as he listens.

Deb swallows, holds back the tears that have been threatening to fall all night. "You looked me in the eye, just before…" Deb cocks her head, leaves him to fill in the blank. "And…I saw it."

Dexter had always feared such a moment. Had actually experienced it before. Normal people tended to know something was amiss when they got too close to someone like him. "You could see I'm not normal."

"No." Deb shakes her head. "You looked like _him_." She takes a deep breath. "You looked like Rudy."

Dexter looks at her and thinks the slightest touch will shatter her. He has always been grateful to have Deb. But for the first time he regrets that she had him.

"There was something in the way he would look at me." Deb continues. "Especially while we were in bed together. I couldn't really place my finger on it. I still can't…define it." Her gaze drifts back to him. Even through the darkness he can see the contempt in her eyes. "But you had that same look. In that moment, I realized you've always had that same look. How had I never seen it before?"

He is silent, fearful that anything he says or does will only make things worse. But Deb needs more.

"How long have you been like this?"

Dexter pauses, but the time to sugar coat things, the time to wrap it all up in a pretty package and pretend that everything is alright, has passed. "As long as I can remember."

"Fuck…" Deb murmurs. "How long have you been killing people?"

Dex closes his eyes briefly. "Since I was 18."

Deb laughs suddenly, a humorless, harsh sound. "How the fuck have you gotten away with this? How could I not have known?"

Dex isn't entirely sure that the question isn't rhetorical, but he answers anyways. "Dad trained me."

Deb stares at him for a moment, eyes wide. Then she turns suddenly, empties the contents of her stomach over the side of the boat. Dexter moves quickly to her side, but is still afraid to touch her. He squats down in front of her. Deb stays, hanging over the side of the boat, unsure if she's willing to continue this conversation.

Finally, when she thinks her stomach can handle more, she turns back to Dexter. "Tell me." Deb orders.

Dexter takes a deep breath. "I watched my mother get murdered in front of me. They cut her up while I watched. I was three and I sat in her blood for days before Harry found me." Dexter pauses, takes in Deb's shocked expression. He considers whether he should tell her about Brian, but it feels like too much.

"I started having these urges. I used to kill animals. Harry figured it out. He knew I wouldn't be able to stop myself, so he decided I should only kill people who deserve it. Bad people." Dexter gets to his knees, places his hands over Deb's, hoping for her understanding. But she looks nauseated again, moves away from his touch quickly, crossing to the other side of the boat.

He watches her run her hands over her face, through her hair. "He turned you into a fucking serial killer."

"I was halfway there, Deb."

"Exactly!" She spins back to face him. "He could have brought you back. He could have tried to fix you. Instead he made you this?"

Dexter opens his mouth to argue, and then starts to wonder if she is right. Did it have to be this way? If Harry had taught him how to get away with killing, could he have taught him not to kill at all? But the idea is farfetched to Dexter. He shakes his head, looks up at Deb. "He couldn't fix me Deb, I was already broken."

She sits down on the floor of the boat, brings herself down to Dex's level. "I can't believe that. I can't accept it. I thought you were a good person." She says more to herself than to him.

He slides over to her. "Deb, I take care of people who deserve it. People who abuse and kill children, people who take innocent lives. People who the police can't catch."

"And you think that justifies it." Deb croaks. "That doesn't make it alright, Dex. That doesn't even everything out."

Dex looks away from her. "So what are you going to do? Are you going to turn in your brother?"

Deb scoffs, "You're a fucking asshole, you know that? Do you care about anything but yourself?" He can hear the anger in her voice clearly.

"I care about you." Dexter assures her. He can sense her immediate disbelief.

"You fucking _murder_ people. You enjoy it. I can see it on you. People like you aren't capable of empathy for anyone else." Deb bitterly accuses.

"You're different." Dexter asserts.

She turns away from him and he can see her brush the tears off her cheeks. "I want off this fucking boat Dexter."

He obliges quickly, getting back into the captain's chair and racing them back to the shore before Deb might find her own way off. He hasn't even tied the boat off, when Deb jumps onto the dock and heads quickly to her car. He ties the boat up and chases after her. Her car has already left the lot when he jumps behind the wheel. He speeds off, makes a few lucky guesses and somehow catches sight of her hurtling down 3rd Avenue.

At a distance he follows her back to her house, watches as she enters her new apartment. He waits until the sun is peeking over the horizon before he heads back home.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks again for reading and reviewing! As always, love to hear your thoughts

* * *

Dexter manages to wait until 10 am before he makes some excuse to Angel and heads back to Deb's apartment. It's only been a few hours since he's seen her, but he's more anxious than ever. To realize that Deb has known the truth about him for weeks is unnerving. He wonders vaguely what kept her away from him more, their night together or her figuring him out.

He doesn't bother to knock at her door, but takes out his tools and picks the lock with ease. She doesn't look surprised to see him burst in. For a moment he stands in the doorway, framed by the sunlight, his face in shadow, and sees her curled up in a chair, a bottle of beer dangling from her fingertips. Relieved to see her, he shuts the door slowly, seats himself at the far end of her couch.

It's a good 20 minutes before she says anything and when she finally speaks it's so quiet Dexter leans forward onto his knees to hear her. "You're everything I despise." Her tone is slightly slurred, given the scattered empty beer bottles he would have expected worse.

"But you haven't turned me in." Dexter observes quietly.

Deb hiccups. "Don't think I haven't thought about it."

"Then what's stopping you?" He thinks he knows the answer. But all he gets is a glare in return.

"I actually feel kind of sorry for you." Deb lays her head back against the chair. "You're this despicable excuse for a human being because of my father. I always thought he was this perfect cop and the whole fucking time he was training you to be his personal vigilante."

"It wasn't like that Deb. He thought he was doing the right thing."

"How the fuck does this look like the right thing?" Deb pauses, brings her head back up to look at Dexter. "I had plans ya know? That first night I followed you and I saw you take some chubby, bald guy. I knew you were going to do something horrible. I was going to go inside and stop you. And then I didn't. And you brought out these bags and I thought 'well, it's too fucking late now'. So then I was going to make you open the bags and show me and I was going to call the station. And then I didn't." Deb rambles, seemingly unable to stop.

"Then I followed you again and you took some Hispanic guy and I thought I'd call it in. Stop it before it could happen, see if they could catch you. But I couldn't dial the fucking phone. Even last night…I don't know how I got out of the fucking car. I have no fucking clue how I ever confronted you." Deb drains her beer and drops the bottle with a clatter onto the ground next to her chair.

Deb stands onto shaky legs, moves slowly to the kitchen for a fresh bottle. "I thought I had some fucking morals. I thought I at least knew right from wrong." She twists the cap open, sinks down to the kitchen floor and leans her back against a cabinet.

Dexter walks into the kitchen as well, sits down a few feet away. "It doesn't make you a bad person."

"This coming from you." Deb replies sarcastically.

Dexter crawls a bit closer. "It's hard when you care about someone. Sometimes the right thing isn't the easy one. Sometimes it makes the wrong thing less wrong." Dexter thinks about it, moves even closer. "You haven't turned me in because you love me."

Deb lunges at him suddenly, forces him onto his back and jumps on top of him, straddling his waist. He hears the shattering of the beer bottle next to his ear, feels the cool liquid pooling beneath his head. Deb holds the sharp end of the broken bottle to his throat. "_I HATE YOU_" Deb is vicious.

He looks up at her intently, sees the ferocious look in her eyes. They stare at each other as she presses the broken glass against his neck. She presses until she breaks skin, Dexter grimaces slightly as a point of blood wells up from the cut. The crimson spot catches Deb's attention. She watches as it grows and with abrupt disgust she releases the bottle, skitters away from him.

Dexter lies still for a moment, brings his hand to his neck, swipes at the blood, looks at the smear against his fingers. He sits up slowly, gazes at Deb huddled in the corner of her kitchen. She has drawn her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. But the look she gives him is like fire, burning with a bright intensity.

Desire, hot and heavy, bubbles up within him. As broken as Deb's world is, she herself is not. She is strong, she is audacious. It is utterly intoxicating. He can feel the monster rear its head in response.

Without a thought, Dexter reaches out, latches onto an ankle, yanks her towards him. She lashes out at him, her free foot connecting with his back. Dexter persists, brings her close enough to grab onto her hands and force them down. He presses the weight of his lower body against her legs until she is pinned.

It reminds him of how they used to rough house as kids. Dexter still has the advantage. He leans down, pulls her earlobe into his mouth. He's so sure he has the upper hand that he's caught off guard when Deb's teeth sink into his neck. He nearly growls in response, roughly pulls her jaw towards him and kisses her hard. He can taste his blood on her lips and hardens in response.

He has never felt lust like this. His hunger for her rages, makes him delirious. He thinks only of himself as he uses one hand to force her legs apart, settles down and grinds himself against her heated center.

As Deb fights his overwhelming strength, an inner battle wages as well. She hates him in ways she never dreamed were possible. She hates who he is, the lies he has told her, the fact that he is no better than the man who has just finished ripping her life to shreds. But what she hates most is that he is right, she does love him. She loves him because she always has. She loves him because she knows no other way. And to make it all the worse, she wants him, just like this, on top of her, kissing her, fucking her.

Confusion is too mild of a word for what goes on in Debra's mind. This is her fucking brother, a fucking serial killer, and yet she wants nothing more than to rip off his clothes, ride him hard until they are both spent, piled together on her floor.

She kisses him back, her body's demands overriding all the noise in her head. Despite Dexter's weight, she manages to plant her feet on the ground and whimpers in pain as her bare foot lands on a shard of glass. Dexter breaks their kiss, registers Deb's discomfort for the first time.

He can see the hate in her eyes, mixed in with the lust, the sadness, a tidal wave of emotions. It leaves him awestruck once more, amazed at the depth of her feeling. His free hand slides down her leg, comes to rest on her foot and he can feel the sticky, warm blood under his fingers. He lifts the foot up, inspects the small cut, the blood oozing out of it. He brings it to his mouth, watches her moan as he soothes it with his tongue.

Seeing her submission he lets go of her wrists, uses both of his hands to unbuckle her jeans and pull them off of her along with her underwear. He's too hurried to do more than unzip his own pants and pull himself through the opening. He barely checks if she's ready before he slams all the way into her.

Deb screams, her hands go to his shoulders and she digs her nails in, drags them across his flesh. The skin that is exposed raises, breaks open, the stinging only incites him. He fucks her hard and fast, his fingers digging into her hips. He's sure he will leave marks on her body and revels in the idea. He wants to own her. He wants her to know that she is his. He leans down, yanks her tshirt away from her skin, fastens his mouth above her left breast, suckles and bites until the skin is sore and red with the effort.

Deb takes all of it, the pain mixing with the pleasure. She wonders how this has become a metaphor for her fucked up life. But she gives as good as she gets, one hand tangling in his hair and pulling hard, the other sneaking under his t-shirt so she can scratch at his back.

He pulls away so that he can look into her eyes. Dexter doesn't mind the anger he sees there, he doesn't even mind the hate that burns brightly. The thing he focuses on is that small hint of love. Even with what she knows, even with the fact that he is slamming into her, she still loves him. She still looks at him the way no one else in the world does.

He's coming hard and far sooner than he would like. He reaches between them, his fingers finding her point of pleasure, taking it roughly between his digits until she is flying and crashing with him. He collapses on top of her and they struggle to catch their breath.

She recovers first, pushing roughly against his shoulders until he rolls off of her. Their legs are still tangled and Deb turns her head to the side, away from him. She hates herself just enough to think that she hasn't fallen to his depths yet.

Dex rolls his head towards her, watches the way she clenches her hands against her chest. Wincing he sits up, reaches back to his shoulder blade to find another cut. He can see spots of blood on Deb's legs too. Gently, he scoops her up, takes her into her bathroom. He sits her on top of the closed lid of the toilet, finds some cotton swabs in her cabinet and begins to wipe the blood away. She stays immobile for all of this, staying where he moves her, almost unaware of his presence.

"How did you save me from Rudy?" The question catches Dexter off guard. He rocks back onto his heels suddenly, plops onto his ass and looks up at her.

She looks at him unflinching, her eyes clear. "He knew who you were, didn't he?"

Still Dexter stares at her, unsure what he should say.

"I've been thinking about it a lot. Why did he pick me? What made him hate me enough to string me along? To make me fa-fall in love with him?" Deb's voice cracks painfully. She swallows a few times, her gaze drifting to the floor. She watches the blood seeping from a cut on her ankle.

"It's your fault." She finally says out loud what he has been dreading.

"Yes." Dexter breathes. The night it happened, when Deb sat in the back of the ambulance and asked him why, he wanted nothing more than to say those words. He wanted to own up to the blame. He wanted to tell her that she deserved so much better than him. But how could he say that? Surely this would be it. Now she would leave him.

"He was my brother." The words leave him before he can stop them. He thinks Deb will lose it now. She will scream at him, she will beat the shit out of him. Instead she sits absolutely still. Dexter wonders if she heard him at all.

"His name was Brian. He was there when my mother died. But I didn't remember. And then he found me."

Ever so slowly Deb nods. "He wanted to get close to you. So he used me." Her voice is flat, unfeeling.

"He asked me to choose him instead of you. So I killed him." Dexter tells her this with desperation. He thinks there may be a chance for her to forgive all of this if she knows this last piece. "I chose you."

Deb looks at him for a long time, silently. "Why?" she finally asks.

Dexter opens his mouth, but he doesn't know what to tell her. He could say that he couldn't imagine killing her, that he didn't like the idea of her dead. He could tell her what he told Brian, that he was fond of her. He could say something as simple as the fact that he likes having her around. But none of this seems adequate.

It's been too long now and he can see the anger building in Deb. She finally shakes her head at him. "Just get the fuck away from me." She gets up on her own, goes into her bedroom and slides into bed, pulling the covers over her head.

Dexter gives up eventually, quietly leaves her apartment. He needs to answer the question he's been asking himself since the night he killed his brother. He needs to give Deb an answer. Why did he choose her?


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry for the extended absence and lack of update! December really got away from me and this chapter did not want to be cooperative and just write itself :p Anyways, there's not much of this left, but the last chapter is giving me some trouble. I'm hoping the update won't take more than two weeks, so I ask for your patience

Hope everyone had a happy holiday and a very Happy New Year!

* * *

Dexter stared unseeingly at the moving images on the television. His mind had been elsewhere all evening. He glanced at the clock for the tenth time in seven minutes. Debra should have been home 20 minutes ago.

Dexter looked over at Harry, fast asleep and snoring at the other end of the couch. He had an urge to shake him awake, point out the time. Instead he made his way over to the window, peered out into the darkness. To his surprise the old Chevy had returned.

Certain no one was in the car, Dexter moved to the front door, peered through the glass paneling and could see Deb's date groping her ass. Burning rage erupted in his chest with such ferocity that Dexter swung the door open without a thought. Neither Deb nor her date realized anyone was there until Dexter latched onto her arm and ripped her from his embrace.

"What the fuck!?" Deb's immediate anger only fueled his fire. He pulled Deb inside, slamming the door on her bewildered date.

As Deb attempted to pull away from him, his grip tightened painfully. Deb's anger was replaced by confusion and tinted with fear as she looked up into her brother's face, suddenly unrecognizable.

In return Dexter looked at her possessively, a hunger mixing with his anger. Dexter pulled her closer, their faces just inches apart. This was a Dexter that Deb was unfamiliar with. This was someone who's next action she could not predict. For a moment, locked together, Dexter stared at her lips, still plump from her date's attention.

"Dexter." Harry voice held a veiled threat which only Dexter could hear. He dropped Deb's arm quickly, but didn't step away from her. She backed away from him slowly, her eyes never leaving him. Steps away from the staircase she turned on her heel suddenly, bolted up the stairs without a word.

Dexter didn't turn to acknowledge Harry until Deb had disappeared. His gaze turned towards his adoptive father, the anger still burning clearly in his eyes. "Don't look at me that way boy." Harry admonished.

His eyes turned down, the fury within him quelling at Harry's scolding. Harry walked closer to him, invading his space uncomfortably. "What were you doing with Deb?" Harry's tone was frosty.

"She was out past curfew and I saw her kissing that boy." Dexter doesn't recognize his own voice, quiet and ragged.

"I'm the judge of what Debra is allowed to do, not you. How is it going to look to that boy that you were the one to drag Deb away? What do you think he'll be saying in school on Monday?"

Dexter's head snapped up. "I don't care! You didn't see how his hands were on her."

Harry stares hard at Dexter. "Unless Deb didn't want it, that is none of your business." He turns away, heads towards the stairs.

Harry barely hears Dexter's next statement, but it's enough to make his blood run cold. "It is my business because she's mine."

Harry storms at him quicker than Dexter anticipates. Harry's hand is closing around his throat, his weight lifting off the ground so that only his toes touch. "She is your _sister_. Never anything else." Harry ground out, fire and brimstone in his voice.

Dexter sputtered, his hands holding onto Harry's arm. Harry let go suddenly and Dexter dropped to the ground, coughing. "I won't let you drag her down."

Dexter watched Harry climb the stairs slowly from his position on the floor. He waited as he heard Harry's mumbled voice addressing Deb. He knew Harry would ground her for her behavior. It would have been Doris' job to discuss what Deb should and shouldn't do on a date, but with her mother gone Harry's hard punishments would be all that was left to her. Dexter knew Deb would be angry, probably would give him the cold shoulder for a week. But maybe she would also think twice about her next date, and that was a cold comfort to Dexter right now, even if he couldn't quite figure out why.

* * *

Dexter is hot on the trail. He knows, with the confidence of someone who has done this countless times, that he will find his target. It's just a matter of time. A matter of patience. But patience is not something that Dexter has a lot of these days. It's difficult to be patient when he can feel the fragile threads which hold his world together unraveling.

He is still managing to keep things together for the time being. He can gather his meandering thoughts, focus them onto his primary goal and push forward, but the struggle to do so increases day by day.

Dexter rubs his eyes, rolls his shoulders a few times. On a day like today he would like Harry's counsel, but he hasn't seen the old man in months. Come to think of it, he hasn't seen his ghostly guide since that first night with Deb. He had been too preoccupied to make the connection before, but it all makes sense now. He has finally dealt Harry the ultimate betrayal.

Granted, he had plenty of warning over the years. He had been told, in Harry's own cryptic way, that Deb was off limits. Of course, Dexter had not recognized all of it until now. But it made sense, the things Harry used to say. How upset he would get when Dexter would let Deb get too close or vice versa. And now he appreciates how right Harry was. If Dexter had only kept those dark desires to himself, they wouldn't be in this mess now.

But it was hard to understand the warnings when he couldn't recognize the problem. Until that night, in his dark bedroom, touching and kissing Deb, he had never comprehended that this was what he wanted. He had understood that Deb was different than the others. Different than every person in his life, different than anyone he used or knew in his cover. But he didn't know that was why. He couldn't see that the instinct to covet her, to keep her to himself, was greater than a desire to protect the love she felt for him. It was a desire to have her completely and totally to himself.

* * *

Dexter attempted to follow along as Deb chattered away to Rita. It was a relief in a way. He was always getting far too much detail about Deb's latest boyfriends and sexual escapades. For once someone else was taking the full brunt.

It had taken some time, but Dex had figured out that none of these idiots would be taking her away from him. Deb as usual was setting the bar too low. She would figure it out eventually, kick this one to the curb and be on to the next. It made it a little less uncomfortable to hear about _who_ she was doing.

Deb turned his way finally, as if she had finally remembered he was there. She laughed lightly. "I think I traumatize Dex on a regular fucking basis. It's a good thing you're here for when I need some girl talk." Deb told Rita while she smiled at Dex.

She turned back to the blonde. "You're lucky with this one." Deb hooked her thumb in Dex's direction. "He's the saint and I'm the fuck up."

Rita frowned at her. "I'm sure that's not true!"

"Oh it is! You still haven't gotten to know either of us that well, but you'll see." Deb laughed. "Anyways, I've learned to accept my position. And I couldn't be the fucking monk that Dex here is." Deb looked over to him, shoved him gently in the shoulder. Deb looked at him lovingly and Dexter could feel her gaze warming him over. It made him smile genuinely, adoringly in return.

"I need another beer!" Deb exclaimed suddenly, clapping her hands onto the wooden table. "You guys need anything?" They both answered no, and Dexter watched as Deb heads over to the bar.

Rita took notice of the watchful eye on his sister. "You too are….close"

Dexter turned back to Rita, considered her for a moment, took a big bite of his Cuban and nodded around it "Mm hmm."

Rita looked at him uncertainly. Dexter raised his eyebrows, swallowed down his mouth full. "Is that bad?"

"No! It's….nice. Sweet…" But Rita frowned as she said this, seemed a bit uncertain.

* * *

Dexter can't sleep. He paces his crummy motel room, anxious and uncertain. This was not how things were supposed to go. This was all taking far too long. If he didn't fix things soon, there was no telling what would happen. What he would do.

The leash he had secured long ago, the one that reigned him in and made him heel, was loosening. He could feel it unraveling, giving the monster slack. Enough space and he would be completely untethered. He knew where that would lead. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe it was time to stop denying what he really was.

At least he was distanced from anyone who would get hurt. Rita had given up on him awhile back. His coworkers were far away now. And Deb…well…

He couldn't have reasonably been expected to hide his whole life. Surely Harry knew that it would never work in the long run.

* * *

After the funeral he had to track her down. The people in the house, the well wishers, had been too much. He had noticed her missing immediately and managed to make a furtive escape out of the crowd, through the backyard. He cut across the neighbor's lawn, down into the ditch of the nearby canal. Dexter followed that until he made it to the overpass, finding Deb crouched down inside, still wearing her black dress, her shoes off and dangling by her hand.

He didn't bother to say anything, just sat down next to her so that his arm barely touched hers. Wordlessly she leant over, placed her head on his shoulder. "It's just us now." Her voice is hushed.

"Yeah…" Dexter can feel the weight of his father's constant reminder. Now that Harry was gone, they had only each other. His secret was his burden alone and protecting Deb from it would only become more important.

There's a surging feeling in Dexter's chest. The realization that Deb was his and he was hers hits him. He turns his head towards her, leans his forehead down on top of her head.


End file.
